


The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual (1879)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [24]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Cuckolding, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 17: Watson travels with Holmes to Scotland to help out another family friend of the great detective. An ancient curse turns out to have more staying power than expected, the first seer to enter the doctor's life duly sees it coming... and over seventy people die a terrible death.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweaters/gifts).



A curious fact; because so many people amongst those who wanted ever more of Sherlock's doings from his early and mostly undocumented years, this was eventually only the second case to be published in the original stories, yet is now way down the list at number seventeen.

Some 'person' in the room with me has just made a most uncalled for remark about showing his doings. _He knows that I did not mean it in that way!_

+~+~+

I had never had much time for Scotland. It was not xenophobic as such, but this was the country that had taken Sammy from me, and although I was technically half-Scottish through my dear late mother, I had always thought of myself as entirely English. And as a Northumberlander, my ancestors had spent centuries seeing the tartan menace raiding their lands at every opportunity. So a case that took us to 'North Britain' – to be exact, to the tiny Fifeshire village of Musgrave – was not that welcome, even if it did involve cuckoldry, an ancient curse, a seer – and a tragic, if deserved ending.

“Watson”, Holmes said across the breakfast table one cold December morning, “you would describe yourself as a man of equable temperament, would you not?”

“Of course”, I said firmly. “I am a doctor. I have to be.”

Too late, the alarm bells started ringing. I looked at my friend to see a knowing look on those chiselled features.

“What?” I asked suspiciously, wondering what sort of trap I had just talked myself into. He smiled his most beatific smile at me, and I knew that whatever he was going to ask of me, the answer would be in the affirmative. Honestly, put a collar on me and call me Rover!

“I was wondering how you would feel about spending Christmas north of the Border”, he said.

“In Scotland?” I asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“I have a case that involves travelling to the ancient Kingdom of Fife”, he explained. “The village of Musgrave, to be exact. And since your brother is studying at Edinburgh, I could ask that the two of you both be invited, so that you could spend some time together.”

I was, I had to admit, a little touched. Sammy was now over halfway through his training at the University in the Scottish capital, and although he wrote (infrequently), we had not seen each other since his visit at Christmas over two years back, the generosity of Holmes' father having extended to buying him a share in a small apartment in the capital of Lothian. I could only hope that the moose had not contrived to grow even taller during that time!

“That would be very.... pleasant”, I admitted, trying to blink back an unaccountable wetness at the back of my eyes. “Can you tell me anything about the case?”

“I am not even sure that there is a case”, he admitted. “It may be nothing. But Ceawlin Musgrave is an old family friend, or at least his father Edwin was.”

“Saxon names that far north”, I observed.

“As you yourself once reminded me, Edinburgh was of old an English town”, my friend said. “If you can get the time off, we could leave on the day before Christmas Eve. I thought that we could travel up by the night sleeper, then alight at Stirling so that your brother can meet us there, rather than subject him to having to cross the Firth of Forth. Fortunately the North British Railway line to Dundee passes through Musgrave Halt, and all trains have to stop there on request.”

“That is unusual”, I said.

“When the railway was built, apparently the Lord at the time made it a condition of selling them the land”, Holmes said, yawning. “And with the opening last year of the Tay Bridge only a few miles away, the area is quite accessible.”

I looked at him anxiously. Had he not been sleeping again?

“Four hours”, he muttered.

“And it is creepy when you do that!” I snapped.

He grinned.

+~+~+

Because things have changed since those far-off days, I feel the need to explain a little before we continue with the story. There were at that time two routes between London and Scotland, known colloquially as the West Coast (then the London & North Western and Caledonian Railway Companies, now the London, Midland & Scottish) and the East Coast (then the Great Northern, North Eastern and North British Railway Companies, now the London & North Eastern). The latter's route was faster to Edinburgh, but passengers wishing to travel to Dundee, Aberdeen and points north then had to endure two often choppy sea-crossings of the Firths of Forth and Tay. This had led to the North British Railway looking to bridge these great divides – approximately 1½ and 2 miles respectively – and a new bridge had last year been opened across the Tay, having been designed by the recently-knighted Sir Thomas Bouch. He had created something that, from the pictures I had seen in the London papers, most definitely put function before form, but I suppose that it served its purpose, and he was now working on a design for the Forth Bridge to link Fifeshire with Edinburgh.

In those days, it still took the best part of a whole day to get from London to Edinburgh via either route, so I was relieved that Holmes had indeed booked a sleeper compartment for our great trip to the North. He had also, very generously, purchased Sammy's ticket from Edinburgh, so the moose would be waiting for us when we arrived in Stirling. We arrived at Euston Station and found that we had adjoining compartments connected by a door, so after I was settled in, I joined my friend, taking the chair whilst he sat cross-legged on his bed and took out his pipe.

“Why do you even have that thing?” I asked. “You never light it.”

He leaned over and, to my surprise, held the bowl under my nose. I was about to object when I realized that there was something inside it. It looked like.....

“Barley sugar?” I exclaimed incredulously.

“A weakness of mine”, he admitted with a shrug. “People expect a consulting detective to have certain trademarks, and being in deep thought whilst smoking a pipe is one thing. They think the only reason that it is unlit is due to my absent-mindedness. Rather more effective that turning up with a bag of ha'penny sweets!”

I shook my head at him, but laughed.

“Tell me about the case”, I said.

He sat back on his bed and stretched out his long legs. It struck me that I rarely saw him this relaxed; he was usually tense over some case or other. This look was good on him.

“Despite the name, the Musgraves are, by descent, as Scottish as they come”, he began. “An ancestor was either fortunate or smart enough to get in with one of the early Stuarts, so when the latter came to the Scottish and later the English thrones, they 'rode their coat-tails,' so to speak. The current Lord is Ceawlin; as I explained his father Edwin was a friend of my own father. Ceawlin and I were at school together, although he was in the year ahead of mine.”

“His father died young?” I asked.

“A hunting accident”, Holmes said. “He left three sons; Ceawlin, Cuthwulf and Cynric. I understand there were some concerns about the middle brother who was a most wayward young fellow, but he died in his cups some three years back and the year after that Ceawlin married and now has a son, Kenneth. That is partly what this is all about.”

“The boy is not in any danger?” I asked, worried.

“I do not know”, Holmes said, frowning. “It is all frankly bizarre. The family has an ancient ritual that, on the night of the first birthday of a new heir, the father must go down to the cross in the village churchyard and spend the night giving thanks. Even in this day and age, childhood is a dangerous time.”

“And your friend does not want to do this?”

“He does not really believe in superstition”, he said. “The Musgraves have always been of determined stock, and it is appropriate that they live in The Hard Place.”

“The Hard Place?” I asked.

“The ancestral home”, Holmes explained. “Originally it was on the other side of the hill from the village, close to the coast where a road ran along the foreshore, hence the name. An ancestor took the opportunity of it being damaged in a storm to rebuild it in a more sheltered and, dare I say, more sensible spot, but he kept the name.”

“I see.”

“His wife, Lady Alison, is herself convinced that it is all mumbo-jumbo, and that he would be better ignoring the whole thing.”

“So he is torn”, I said. 

“Yes. I suppose that we had better turn in, so we are fresh when we arrive in Stirling and meet your brother.”

I smiled, and left him.

+~+~+

The following day (Christmas Eve) we alighted at Stirling and met Sammy – another half an inch taller, damnation! - outside the platform entrance, our onward train being in another hour's time. To my eternal chagrin he and Holmes became fast friends, and my brother openly asked if I had any annoying habits. Worse, Holmes promised to send him detail by telegram.

Several telegrams! Harrumph!

+~+~+

Mr. Ceawlin Musgrave's home - 'The Hard Place' - was, I quickly decided was like the Scottish weather. Damp and depressing. And most of the people in it were frankly strange!

Ceawlin Musgrave was the only one I could really take to, though Fate had not been kind to him in granting him the family nose, which stuck out prodigiously (Holmes, out of his line of sight, smirked at my barely constrained reaction, the bastard!). The lord of the manor immediately introduced us to his wife and son, the latter's nose fortunately not yet showing any tendencies towards greatness. Lady Alison Musgrave was quiet and, I thought, a little secretive. She was short, dark and almost ethereal, as if she were not really there. Also in the house was her unmarried sister Miss Pamela Barnes, who eyed Holmes up with great interest. It always puzzled me as to why ladies were drawn to his unkempt appearance, but whatever it was, it worked for him. I did not like the way that Miss Barnes was standing far too close to my friend, but I said nothing. I did not wish for a repeat of the embarrassment that I had felt in St. Ives!

Yes, all right, and Cornwall!

There was of course a full compliment of staff, but the only one to draw my attention was the steward, a Mr. John Barnes. Despite the name he was only a third cousin once removed to the two ladies. He was tall, red-headed and (I thought) the archetypal Celtic warrior, who looked at his Sassenach visitors with barely-concealed disgust. I thought to myself that he was probably still resentful over the 1707 Act of Union. His sort usually were!

+~+~+

I had expected the following day, Christmas morning, to be taken up with opening young Kenneth's presents, and was surprised that this was not the case. Ceawlin Musgrave saw my confusion. 

“It is his first birthday tomorrow”, he explained, “so we decided that this year, as he it too young to understand it, we would have one big day of presents.”

“Is that the night you are expected to go to the Cross?” I asked. He reddened.

“Yes”, he said. “Alison thinks I should not go, and I am inclined to agree with her. She says that in this day and age, we should be well past such nonsense.”

“I would venture that many here disagree with that”, Holmes said. Musgrave looked surprised, but nodded. 

“Yes”, he said. “Barnes thinks that I am a fool who doesn't want to face a night in the cold and wet to save his own son. Though he is too polite to say it out loud. Barely!”

“And does your sister-in-law have an opinion?”

I was surprised at the question. Had Holmes noticed the way that Miss Barnes had been looking at him the previous evening? I had come away from talking with Sammy to find the lady once again far too close to my friend, and I had immediately felt anxious. Still, he was an unattached rich young man, and she was, I supposed, moderately good-looking. But the thought still made me feel a little nauseous.

“She has said nothing on the matter”, Musgrave said.

I saw Sammy staggering down the long staircase, and smiled at how half-asleep the boy looked. I waited for him, and we went into breakfast together.

+~+~+

The day passed quietly and pleasantly enough, although I could detect a growing unease amongst some people as to Musgrave's decision, stated firmly over luncheon, that he would not be going to the Cross the following night. I took Sammy out for a long walk that afternoon to escape the tension, though when we came back, it was to the scene of Miss Barnes trying to engage Holmes in conversation in the library, albeit with little success. I felt strangely pleased at that.

The calm was broken at dinner that evening. Miss Barnes had not come down from her room, and after waiting a while we sat down without her. We, were just about to start when there was a loud scream from upstairs. We all raced out of the room, Holmes and Mr. Barnes in the lead, and must have reached her room less than a minute after the scream. Musgrave took the three of us aside and promised to 'explain later', which I found odd, so we went back to our meal. After some time he and Mr. Barnes joined us. There was no sign of Holmes, which made me vaguely anxious.

“Is Miss Barnes all right?” I asked politely.

“The girl's fey!” Mr. Barnes grumbled. I did not get his meaning, but Holmes apparently did.

“You mean that she has the Sight”, he said. Mr. Barnes looked across at Musgrave, and scowled.

“Ay!” he said sourly. “ _She_ has, if no-one else round here!”

He got up and stomped out, much to my surprise. Musgrave sighed.

“My sister-in-law has psychic premonitions”, he admitted. “Tonight, she told us, and I quote, that 'Death would visit the Hall before three days were out'.”

“Folly!” I scoffed. Musgrave looked at me curiously.

“Do your remember the murder of a woman called Julia Martha Thomas, earlier this year?” he asked quietly.

I did. It had been in all the papers that the maid of the lady in question, one Kate Webster, had murdered her mistress and then disposed of the body, even masquerading as her for a time before disappearing back to Ireland. She had however been found out, and later hung.

“My sister-in-law went to the police on the day before the murder, and told them that a crime would take place on that very street”, Musgrave said. “I think because it took place in the town that bears her name, Barnes, they dismissed it as a joke. But she was right.”

I hesitated.

“So will you go to the Cross after all?” I asked tentatively.

He seemed to think for a moment before straightening up.

“No”, he said firmly. “Alison is right. In this day and age, we need to be getting beyond such nonsense!”

“Musgrave?”

My interlocutor jumped, and spun round. Holmes was standing directly behind him.

“May I have a word in private?” the detective asked. 

Musgrave looked at him curiously, but nodded and allowed himself to be led away. I stared after them both, wondering.

+~+~+

“What was all that about earlier?” I asked my friend as we sat in the library after dinner. Fortunately Miss Barnes had apparently tired of Holmes' obvious lack of interest, and had instead focussed her attentions on poor Sammy, which had made dinner 'interesting'. I had not known the human face could achieve that shade of red. I wondered if I might 'accidentally' slip her his address in Edinburgh. 

And why was my friend giving me a disapproving look just then?

“I was recommending a course of action to our genial host”, Holmes said. “I think that he will follow it; at least, I hope that he will. For his own sake.”

“You think that there is something in this ritual thing?” I asked dubiously. His reply surprised me.

“I am certain of it.”

“You cannot believe in some old curse!” I scoffed.

“Miss Barnes expects Death to visit this house very soon”, Holmes said flatly. “I fear that she may well be right.”

“And what makes you think that?” I asked.

“A number of factors”, he said evasively. “Primarily, young Kenneth Musgrave.”

I was about to demand an explanation, but at that moment Sammy burst into the library and all but ran over to sit beside us. I could hear Miss Barnes calling for him from the corridor outside, and I chuckled at him.

+~+~+

That evening and the next day both passed quietly. Everyone knew that Lord Musgrave had broken the ritual by not attending at the Cross, and I could sense a growing sense of tension, particularly from some of the servants. The scowl on Mr. Barnes' face was, if possible, even deeper.

I took Sammy out for another long walk, and managed to extract from him that he was seeing a fellow student at the University, a pretty blonde girl called Miss Jessica Moore. Naturally this called for some good-natured brotherly ribbing, and I did not disappoint. Until Sammy quite snidely remarked that I was the one already living with someone. I pointed out that Holmes was a M-A-N, in case Sammy hadn't noticed, and that we were merely sharing a suite of rooms, though I did not miss his sharp expression when I mentioned our recent move to Cramer Street. 

We arrived back to find the trap waiting outside, and a footman loading a suitcase into it. Mrs. Musgrave was visible inside, talking briefly to her husband before it drew away.

“Alison has had a letter from an old friend down in Stirling, who has gone into hospital”, Musgrave explained. “She wants to visit her today, before coming back here for the New Year.”

He exchanged what seemed to be a meaningful look with Holmes, but neither man said anything, and we all hurried inside to escape the light rain that had just begun to fall.

+~+~+

The following day, the rain continued, and a storm seemed to be blowing in from the North Sea. House and village lay behind a small hill just two miles south of the Firth of Tay, so we were protected from at least some of the storm's fury, if not all. Holmes, Sammy and I spent the day reading, the only event being a telegram from Mrs. Musgrave to note her safe arrival at her friend's house.

Musgrave wanted to drive down to meet his wife off the early evening train, so we sat down to an earlier than usual dinner, with the promise of a cold buffet later if we were hungry. I noted with amusement how Sammy inserted himself between Holmes and myself, presumably in an attempt to evade the attentions of Miss Barnes. She was, I grudgingly conceded, an attractive young lady, and I had to admit to being slightly offended that I had not been targeted by her as of yet. Musgrave covered a yawn from the head of the table.

“I really feel very tired”, he said. “I think I shall take a nap for an hour before leaving. Barnes, could you please ask Mrs. Holland to send me up a glass of warm milk?”

“Of course, sir”, his steward nodded. They both stood and left the table, in different directions.

“I should turn in too”, Miss Barnes said. “It looks like being a bad one tonight.”

For some reason, I thought that her words had a hidden meaning. A thought which, most horribly, turned out to be all too accurate.

+~+~+

At about a quarter to seven, I was sat in my room when I heard a knock at the door. 

“Enter!” I called out.

To my surprise, it was Holmes. He looked unduly anxious.

“Come, Watson!” he said imperiously. “The game's afoot!”

He disappeared before I could question him further, and I scrambled to follow him, down the stairs to the library, where I found a worried-looking Musgrave being handed a stiff drink by the butler. Not his first, I judged from his shaking hand. Our host downed his glass and looked hard at Holmes.

“You were right!” he ground out. “By God, I so hoped you were not!”

My friend bowed his head.

“I am sorry”, he said. “I wish that it could have been otherwise.”

“What is going on?” I asked in confusion. Holmes turned to me.

“About half an hour ago, Mr. Barnes attempted to murder his employer.”

“But why?” I demanded. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Tell him!” Musgrave ground out. “Why not? It will be the talk of the Edinburgh taverns soon enough!”

“Mr. Barnes has been conducting an affair with his cousin, Mrs. Musgrave”, Holmes explained. “Tonight he went to our host's room in an attempt to kill him.”

“But we would have heard something!” I objected.

The storm outside chose that moment to do an obliging roll of thunder, and Holmes smiled thinly.

“He merely waited until one of those”, he said. 

“But why did Musgrave not hear him?” I said, turning to our host. “You cannot have been asleep by then, surely?”

“Mr. Barnes drugged the milk that he took up for him”, Holmes explained. “I presume that you poured it away?”

Musgrave nodded.

“So the shot missed?” I asked.

“Your friend advised me to watch from the next room, and he made a mound under the bedclothes to look like me”, Musgrave explained, reaching for another brandy. He looked at Holmes. “I presume that, when he realized I was not there, he fled?”

Holmes nodded.

“He took a horse and rode off down the road to the station”, he said. “He is probably in Dundee by now.”

“Why Dundee?” I asked curiously. “Surely if he is fleeing the country, he would go to London?”

“You underestimate the power of our great nation”, Holmes reminded me. “In this day and age, the only safe place he could run to would be a country that we are hostile towards, and which would not hand him over. I would hazard a guess that there is a ship leaving Dundee docks tomorrow, bound for Archangel or St. Petersburg. Given recent events between our two countries, the Russians would probably not be obliging over his extradition.”

“But how could you have known?” I asked. 

“Lord Musgrave told me.”

Our host looked up in surprise.

“Not directly”, Holmes admitted, “but ever since my arrival in your house, my lord, I have observed how you do not respond to young Kenneth the way most fathers would to their first-born son and heir, especially to such an estate as this. You have suspected your wife of infidelity for some time, did you not?”

The nobleman nodded. I could see how the subject pained him.

“I did”, he said sadly, “though I never thought it to be with her own cousin. When she returns, I will have certain questions to ask her.”

“Indeed”, Holmes said.

+~+~+

Close observers of the date at this point in this story will probably be able to guess the outcome. Mrs. Musgrave did not return. It later emerged that, as a back-up plan, Mr. Barnes had arranged to meet his cousin off an earlier train at Musgrave Halt after the attempt on her husband's life, so that if it went wrong, at least they could escape together. It was subsequently discovered that a large number of bonds had gone missing from Lord Musgrave's safe, to which only he, his wife and his steward had access. Clearly the two planned to sail to Russia to start a new life together.

December the twenty-eighth, eighteen hundred and seventy-nine was, of course, the night that the railway bridge across the River Tay collapsed, sending a train of over seventy passengers to a cold death in the icy waters far below....

+~+~+

We took a train back via Stirling to Edinburgh, and spent a pleasant day with Sammy before taking the night sleeper back to London. Returning through the ever-present traffic to Cramer Street, we made the safety of our rooms, and I collapsed gratefully into a fireside chair whilst Holmes opened the mail. It took some time for me to notice he was unusually silent, even for him.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He looked strangely at me, and held out a letter.

“This is from the “Strand” magazine”, he said, and he sounded vaguely amused for some reason. “Apparently you informed them that you and some friend of yours go round solving crimes, and they would like to know if you would write an article about your adventures for them?”

I blushed bright red. Most disobligingly, the floor declined to open up and swallow me whole.

“I.... uh, I swear... that is, I never.....” 

He chuckled.

“I am sure that your doctor's discretion would never lead you to divulge inappropriate details”, he said with a smile. “If you wish to write up one of the cases that we have undertaken, then by all means do so.”

“You would not mind?” I asked, surprised.

“There are some cases which, for obvious reasons, publication would be.... inadvisable”, he said. “And others where details might have to be amended. But yes, provided you ask me first about which stories you wish to publish, I see no problem with it.”

“The “Gloria Scott”?” I asked. “Our first case?”

“Provided you do not reveal what happened with the diamonds”, he said.

“Deal!”

+~+~+

The fallout from the Musgrave case was rather more than I might have expected, let alone the collapse of the bridge and the (deserved) deaths of the plotters. I do not think that poor Ceawlin Musgrave ever really recovered from his wife's perfidy, and the death of her son Kenneth in a scarlet fever outbreak two years later was the last straw. He immediately resigned his title to his younger brother Cynric, and left to start a new life in South Africa.

Two weeks before his departure, Mr. Cynric Musgrave had become engaged. To a Miss Pamela Barnes.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: The subsequent inquiry into the Tay Bridge Disaster largely blamed the designer, the recently-knighted Sir Thomas Bouch. He was ruined and died soon after, a broken man. In my humble opinion the North British Railway Company, who had so frequently exceeded the speed limit on the bridge that many Dundonians would not use it because trains shook so on the steep slope down to their city, was at least equally culpable. This terrible calamity greatly shook people's faith in humanity being able to overcome nature, but was of course supplanted in the memories of most people by the even greater disaster that befell a famous ocean liner some thirty-three years later.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would concern the execution of a will, and my friend would have to work hard to ensure that everyone got what they deserved.


End file.
